by NELSON S. BOND
Far out in limitless Space she plied
her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the
void, beckoning spacemen to death and
destruction with her beautiful siren lure.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall of
the spaceship _Chickadee II_, stared at what he saw reflected
therefrom--and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too--too--
He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about his
neck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,
gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted a
grunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companions
triumphantly.
"There! How do you like _that_?"
Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, always
languid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problem
concerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moaned
insultingly and forced a shudder.
"Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck!"
"You," Chip told him serenely, "have no appreciation of beauty. What do
_you_ think of it, Padre?"
"Salvation" Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,
a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing his
weathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. "Well,
my boy," he admitted, "there is _some_ Biblical precedent for
your--ahem!--clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coat
which was of many colors--'"
"Both of you," declared Chip, "give me a pain in the pants!
Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,
cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make us
rich for life--and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls!
"Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party the
likes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in the
window, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'
hours!"
Syd chuckled.
"O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-joint
entertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer!"
Salvation said soberly, "Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I _would_ be
careful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of law
and order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization as
well as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violent
and unheeding the words of Him who rules all--"
The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip that
Salvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries who
espoused the principle of "turning the other cheek" to evildoers.
Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutly
religious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken upon
himself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the God
he worshipped.
That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God of
anger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvation
sometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvation
acknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to be
the best hand with a gun!
Now Chip gave quiet answer. "I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,
Syd--sure you won't change your mind and come along?"
"No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing this
jalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em."
"O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!"
And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the _Chickadee_
onto the soil of the asteroid Danae.
* * * * *
Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the town
beyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice _lucentite_
Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terra
normal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for its
cradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,
and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulders
with citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,
petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,
Earthman--all were here.
Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. A
brilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to:
XU'UL'S SOLAREST
Barroom--Casino--Dancing
100--Lovely Hostesses--100
He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vying
for the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)
helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftly
as possible from the credits in his money belt.
Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;
but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passed
through it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusians
were straining the structure with a native "sing-stomp," and ended up
finally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private bar
unfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender.
The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chip
entered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting.
"Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse?"
This was more like it! Chip grinned.
"Scotch," he said. "_Old Spaceman._ And let's have a new bottle, Curly.
None of that doctored swill."
"Of courrsse, ssirr!" piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed a
bottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back at
him.
"Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another." He
took a deep, appreciative sniff. "And don't let any of those dizzy
dolls in here," he ordered. "I've got a lot of back drinking to catch
up on, and I don't want to be disturbed--_Hey!_"
In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burst
open, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A finger
pointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared:
"_Stop!_ Bartender--grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted on
four planets for murder!"
* * * * *
Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, it
seemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scampered
from his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.
Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined his
features. And--
"_Johnny!_" Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.
"Johnny Haldane--you old scoundrel! Where in the void did _you_ drop
from?"
The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with a
bone-grinding handclasp.
"I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we've
crossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, you
could have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Syd
still with you?"
"We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crew
is plating our crate with ek, and--"
"Ek! Plating a private cruiser!" Haldane stared at him in astonishment,
then whistled. "Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits to
be able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron!"
"You," boasted Chip, "ain't heard nothing yet!" And he told him how
they had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.
97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.
"It was touch-and-go for a while," he admitted, "whether we'd be the
luckiest three guys in space--or the deadest! But we passed through the
flaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible--remember?--and here we
are!"[1]
[Footnote 1: "_Shadrach_," <sc>Planet Stories</sc>, Fall, 1941.]
Haldane was exuberant. "A mountain of ekalastron!" he gloated.
"That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'
velocity-intensifier!" It was no overstatement. "Element No. 97 was a
metal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat the
entire hull of a battleship--yet so adamant that a gossamer film of
it would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds to
ash--but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would rebound
like rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on the
open market?"
Warren shook his head.
"Not exactly. We talked it over carefully--Syd and Salvation and I--and
we decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be made
available. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control of
the mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earth
authorities we were bringing in one cargo--"
"Visiphoned!" interrupted Haldane sharply. "Did you say visiphoned?"
"Why--why, yes."
"From where?"
"Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strong
transmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did we
do something that was wrong?"
Haldane frowned worriedly. "I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything
_wrong_, but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message was
intercepted, you may have played into the very hands of--the Lorelei!"
* * * * *
Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.
"Hey--I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand here
with an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute I
thought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is a
myth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out in
the middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,
warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction."
He grunted. "A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of this
alleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sad
story." He started to sing. "'_Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten_--'"
The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.
"It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That's
how she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly lures
space-mariners to their death.
"The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere in
the Belt--and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercising
her vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Since
then, no less than a dozen spacecraft--freighters, liners, even one
Patrolship--have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have been
brutally murdered, their cargos stolen."
"Wait a minute!" interrupted Chip shrewdly. "How do you know about her
if the crews have been murdered?"
"She has a habit of locking the controls," explained Haldane, "and
setting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on her
hideout--wherever it is--for empty hulks. One of these ships was
salvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and her
pirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. He
described her. His description goes perfectly with less accurate
glimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!"
Chip said soberly, "So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. I
thought you were pulling my leg. Where do _I_ come into this mess,
though?"
"Ekalastron!" grunted Johnny succinctly. "A jackpot prize for any
corsair! And you _advertised_ a cargo of it over the etherwaves! The
Lorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The only
thing for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as you
can get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy--"
A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmer
would have groaned to see--for it usually presaged trouble. It was a
bright, hard, reckless light.
"Hold your jets, Johnny!" drawled Chip. "Aren't you forgetting one
thing? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her whole
mob--and be damned to them! She can't touch the _Chickadee_, because
it's being plated right now!"
Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.
"By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the
_Chickadee's_ hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurry
to reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei
_together_! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the
_Chickadee_ and--"
"It's a deal!" declared Chip promptly. "You got any idea where this
Lorelei's hangout is?"
"That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei's
men put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single him
out somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in that
way--_Chip! Look out!_"
* * * * *
Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,
thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yet
unopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousand
shards against a wall.
Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had caused
Johnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar was
blazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from the
dark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face!
The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.
His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged to
the floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's body
jerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charred
flesh.
With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his knees
behind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistol
was in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in his
heart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing livid
death into the shadows.
His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawn
in inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered with
one long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newly
scarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship.
Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of pounding
footsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,
seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering life
beneath still smoldering cloth.
He felt--nothing. Johnny was dead.
A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would pay
for this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead the
hue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun as
the footsteps drew nearer.
"Hurry!" he cried. "This way! Follow me--"
In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enough
to let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,
now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,
quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help.
"After him! Come on! He--"
And then--disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of the
mob. The voice of the Martian bartender.
"That's him!" he piped sibilantly. "That's the man! He's a desperate
criminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came to
arrest him--_and now he's murdered the Spacie_!"